


Letters From the Abyss

by Saucery



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 1800s, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Cooking, Courtship, Creepy, Crimes & Criminals, Dark, Deception, Desire, Disturbing Themes, Embedded Images, Evil, Food, Fucked Up, Graphic Description of Corpses, Historical Inaccuracy, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, Literary References & Allusions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Mind Games, Murder, Mystery, Organs, POV Hannibal, Police, Possessive Hannibal, Prostitution, Pseudo-History, Psychoanalysis, Psychological Horror, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Scotland Yard, Secret Identity, Seduction, Serial Killers, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Villains, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1345765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1888. A series of gruesome murders has rocked Whitechapel, and the killer, widely known as Jack the Ripper, is on the loose. The police, headed by Chief Inspector Crawford, are scrabbling to find the Ripper, and the damaged but brilliant Will Graham is recruited to help them in their search. Hannibal Lecter is Will's keeper and personal alienist, and it takes far too long for anybody to realize that the Ripper is close to home.</p>
<p>Or, the one in which Hannibal is Jack the Ripper, and Will is the only human being he can't bring himself to kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters From the Abyss

**Author's Note:**

> In order to incorporate key aspects of the television show into the plot, I have purposely exaggerated the role of [alienists](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alienist) in Victorian crime-fighting, and have included women in the police force. Historical accuracy has, at times, been sacrificed for the sake of canonical congruency. This is my design.
> 
> Please also note that I do _not_ condone the Victorian-era attitudes to mental illness and disability found herein. In fact, I roundly condemn them. You are advised not to read any further if you find ableist language or the inhumane treatment of the mentally ill triggering or upsetting in any way.

* * *

  
Colney Hatch Asylum  


* * *

 

The corridors of Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum were as dimly lit and unappealing as the pictures Hannibal had seen in the papers. A woman with wild hair and wilder eyes staggered past him, unseeing, and was gently taken in hand by a passing nurse. Similar scenes of distress and occasional solace filled the dreary place. At last, he was led to that rarest of rooms - a private chamber - and the man who was leading him, an appallingly rude administrator by the name of Dr. Frederick Chilton, smirked at him superciliously. Hannibal entertained a brief but exceedingly detailed reverie of ridding Chilton of his kidneys. And then sautéing them. With garlic.

Chilton stroked the silver eagle atop his overly ornate walking cane. "Our Will is a bit of an eccentric," he said, with a patently false compassion that made Hannibal clench his jaw. "Not quite mad, and not quite sane. But he treads the tightrope nimbly, he does."

"I am told his grisly work with the Scotland Yard was what set him upon that tightrope."

"And now, they say they require him again." Chilton sighed theatrically. "I do hope the poor boy survives the fall."

Chilton's intonation implied that it would be more interesting if his patient _didn't_ survive the fall, and Hannibal wondered at having found another monster. A monster with different appetites than his own - a preference for fame over flesh - but a monster, nevertheless. It was transparently obvious that Chilton was itching to publish a grandiose exposé on the notorious Will Graham, miracle worker and madman, just as he was desperate to have Jack the Ripper in his asylum, his to poke at and prod and show off like a circus beast.

Well. Chilton was presently speaking with the Ripper himself, and had no notion of how tempting his innards were to a hungry predator.

Hannibal smiled with all his teeth. "I shall do my best to ensure that Mr. Graham remains in excellent health."

Chilton snorted. "Good luck to you," he said, and opened the door.

The first thing that struck Hannibal was the sterile whiteness of the room, stark as an abyss of ice, reflecting blinding sunlight within itself from the large, barred window at the opposite end, above the unmade bed. The bars splintered the light into alternating stripes of brightness and darkness, stark as the keys of a piano.

The second thing was the chair situated near that window, and the figure seated on it, motionless as a corpse.

"Will," said Chilton, too loudly, as if the inhabitant were deaf. "You have a visitor."

Slowly, with the ponderous grace of a sleepwalker, Will Graham stood to face them. Hannibal caught a glimpse of a shock of brown hair and a delicate countenance, a downward sweep of long lashes, a soft mouth. They were uncannily beautiful features, almost fae. Hannibal was even weaker to beauty than most men, being an admirer of fine objects and fine music and fine cuisine, precise in his aesthetic demands of his surroundings. Therefore, it was no surprise that Hannibal felt his heart jolt within him, a sudden, greedy throb, that left him flushed and starved and covetous.

This, he _had_ to have.

By the time Graham stopped turning, Hannibal had doffed his hat, and was holding it politely before him.

"Mr. Graham," Hannibal began, and then stopped, because he simply could not go on. He was captured by the strangest pair of eyes he had ever seen - the eyes of an animal, barbaric and somehow brutal in their all-seeing honesty, two chips of blue-green stone honed into weapons, like the ancient spearheads discovered by archaeologists.

And yet, there was an intelligence in that gaze, and Hannibal's very soul ached and slavered, for intelligent prey was always more agile and difficult to hunt. Graham was appetizingly slender, and had the slightness of a waif, strung tight with tension though he was. The shoulder and back muscles would be tough, were Hannibal to cook them, but the tender meat of those inner thighs would _melt_ off the bone if he stewed it for a few hours.

If prettiness was all there was to Graham, Hannibal would have been absolutely certain that Graham would die by his hand, and be butchered by it.

But that was not all there was to Graham, was there? There was that _gaze_ , that singular gaze, a banked fire perpetually threatening to flare into a conflagration, into something that might consume - pun intended - whatever was in its path. There was solely one other person on whom Hannibal had ever seen that expression, and it was on himself, in his shaving mirror, before he donned his customary mask of harmlessness to appease society with.

Graham was too untamed to mask anything, to appease anyone. And that sang to Hannibal, to the moon-crazed wolf within him, even as it made him burn with a peculiar envy, an emotion so foreign to his experience that it took him several minutes to recognize it.

Hannibal Lecter had never, in his life, envied anyone.

Until now.

How ironic, then, that the subject of Hannibal's envy likely considered himself the least enviable fellow on Earth. Graham did not realize how like a knife he was, the sharp blade of his intellect encased in the sleek, velveteen sheath of his body.

Hannibal was extremely fond of knives.

It was only when Chilton coughed pointedly that Hannibal was reminded of his unwanted presence.

"Dr. Lecter," said Chilton, patronizingly, clearly taking Hannibal's extended silence for an attack of nerves. "Perhaps you would like to introduce yourself to your new patient...?"

_Perhaps you would allow me to introduce you to my mallet_ , Hannibal thought. "Mr. Graham is not to be my patient so much as he is to be my guest," he corrected, in the mildest of tones. Those who knew him well - of which there were none - would have known to fear his mildness. Chilton was merely encouraged to greater heights of unpleasantness.

"Oh, of course, a _guest_ ," he said, with a conspiratorial simper that made Hannibal want to wring his neck. Chilton was actively undermining Hannibal's efforts to put Graham at ease, plainly hoping that Graham would refuse to leave. That Chilton was stupid enough to even attempt to reduce this magnificent creature to a caged pet was a sign of his incompetence as a physician and a human.

"Yes," Hannibal stated, flatly. "A guest." He met Graham's extraordinary eyes with the steadiness and a surety of an oath. "Mr. Graham," he said, "my name is Hannibal Lecter. I am an alienist and a surgeon currently aiding the London Metropolitan Police with the Ripper murders. May I ask if you have heard of them?"

Graham was quiet for a moment, looking _into_ Hannibal with the sort of intense, unwavering focus that felt as tangible as a touch. Hannibal shivered. "I do get the newspapers," Graham said, in a low voice hoarse with disuse. "There have been four victims, thus far. There will be more."

Intriguing. "You seem confident of that."

"So are you."

Hannibal's eyebrows climbed, despite himself. "Why would you say that?" he asked, his own words hushed, secret, excluding Chilton.

"You wouldn't be here unless Crawford was convinced that the Ripper wasn't done killing. He needs me to cast my magic." A jagged smile twisted Graham's mouth, changing its loveliness from that of a petal to that of a dagger. Hannibal stared, spell-bound. "But I did tell him that, like Prospero, I had drowned my book."

"Your assistance would, indeed, be invaluable," Hannibal said, carefully, aware that a single misstep might cost him Graham's cooperation. "Chief Inspector Crawford has assured me he won't keep you once this crisis has been resolved."

"I don't trust his assurances. He made me the same promise three years ago."

"If these crimes were not so gruesome and so utterly beyond the ken of ordinary folk, he would not have to consult you in this manner. Kindly forgive him for acting out of necessity, and in the interests of public safety."

"Ha," Graham huffed. "Necessity. It's what Crawford lives for."

"And what do you live for?" Hannibal blurted, before he could stop himself - and was instantly appalled by his own behavior, because Hannibal Lecter never _blurted_. It was too direct. It was undignified and uncouth and unplanned, and Hannibal prided himself on meticulously planning every aspect of his existence.

Graham laughed - a creaky, tired laugh. "I'm afraid I don't know you - or myself - deeply enough to answer that question, Dr. Lecter."

"Please, call me Hannibal," he said, in another blurt, and hastily tempered the awkwardness of that abrupt request by saying, "It will be a reasonable intimacy, as you'll be living with me, if you heed Crawford's summons."

"Living," Graham said, nonplussed. "With you."

Hannibal cleared his throat. "Chief Inspector Crawford is concerned for your well-being - "

"Concerned for my usefulness, you mean," Graham muttered.

"No," Hannibal said, diplomatically. "He does care for you, Mr. Graham." _He had better not care for you like I am beginning to, however. I do not tolerate rivals._ "As your previous residence was sold and you might benefit from medical attention and the services of an alienist, he suggested that you lodge with me for the duration of this case."

"You're my watcher, then." Graham did not sound overjoyed by the idea.

"Your friend, I hope." Hannibal stepped forward and held out his hand, and Graham took it gingerly, suspicion shadowing his mien. Graham had a warm grip and a pianist's fingers, and Hannibal had to instruct himself to release them before the prolonged contact was deemed inappropriate. "Mr. Graham, you will have your own space in my house, and never will I force you to converse with me or with my acquaintances if you do not wish to."

"Except when it comes to the murders," Graham said, but some of the tension had left his posture.

"Those are under Chief Inspector Crawford's jurisdiction. My primary function is to assist you and ensure your happiness while you are in my home."

"Happiness?" Graham spoke of it as though it were altogether alien, like some bird of paradise in an Amazonian jungle.

"Happiness," Hannibal repeated, firmly. "I visited you today to inform you of the Scotland Yard's intention to consult you regarding the Ripper, and should you prove amenable to it, I and Chief Inspector Crawford will arrive to collect you on the morrow, by eight o'clock in the morning. Ponder the issue tonight and, if you agree to help us, have your belongings packed and ready by breakfast; we'll be taking a carriage to my humble abode, and from there, to the Whitechapel Division."

"I have no belongings to speak of," Graham said, lips quirked self-deprecatingly. "I own nothing. On the contrary, I've lost everything. Including my mind."

"I do not think so," Hannibal murmured. "Your mind merely has windows where other people's minds have walls."

Graham went very still. Briefly, it seemed he was as moved by Hannibal as Hannibal was by him, and there was an openness, a hunger, a _rawness_ to him that he quickly hid by ducking his head. "You are not like most alienists," he mumbled, and Hannibal chuckled.

"I take that as high praise," he said, ignoring Chilton frowning next to him at the implied insult.

"What if I choose not to accompany you tomorrow?" Graham asked.

"Then both the Chief Inspector and I will respect your choice."

"Not that it is a genuine choice, given the moral impetus to prevent the deaths of innocents."

"That you should feel a moral impetus at all is to your credit. You are a man of virtue."

"But in an age of sin, is virtue not madness?"

"Then madness, itself, is virtue," Hannibal parried, enjoying the repartee. Alas, it was growing late, and Hannibal had clients to tend to. It was with regret that he found himself sketching a bow and putting on his hat. "I must now depart, Mr. Graham, but I shall see you soon. I confess to no small eagerness at the prospect of having you as my guest."

Graham turned a fetching shade of pink. "You may call me Will," he said, glancing away from Hannibal as he did so, and the shyness of the gesture made Hannibal's breath catch.

"It would be my pleasure," he said, with as much affection as he could afford without appearing improper. "Goodbye, Will."

"Goodbye," Will said, and returned to his chair.

As Chilton closed the door and walked Hannibal toward the asylum gates, Hannibal contemplated which of his recipes he would cook for Will, and in which order. He yearned to feed Will a human heart, unusually sentimental as that desire was. Hannibal was no Romantic poet, but as he could not satisfy himself by eating _Will's_ heart - doing so would result in the intolerable cessation of Will's conversations with him - he would settle for feeding Will a heart, instead.

"You're an accomplished charmer, aren't you?" Chilton observed, sourly. "I couldn't get Will to consent to my calling him by his Christian name, not in the three years he has been here."

Hannibal stiffened. "Yet you presume to call him by name."

"Ah, well." Chilton struck his cane against the ground. "He had to understand which one of us was in charge, you see."

"I do see," Hannibal said, icily. "After all, what should the consent of a maniac matter?"

Chilton squinted at him, as if unable to discern whether or not Hannibal was employing sarcasm. "Ahem," he said, finally, and waved to the guard at the gates, who obediently unlocked them. "You'll let me know how the case progresses, won't you? And what little mischiefs our Will gets up to?"

"Undoubtedly," Hannibal said, suddenly quite sure whose heart he would be feeding to Will. "Adieu."

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Colney Hatch Asylum did, in fact, exist. Both the images of it used in this chapter were actual Victorian-era images, one illustration and one photograph, the first taken from [this](http://whataboutvictoria.wordpress.com/2010/07/26/mini-project-six-christmas-at-colney-hatch-lunatic-asylum-1856/) website and the second taken from [here](http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/discover/people-and-places/disability-history/1832-1914/daily-life-in-the-asylum/).
> 
> Like my writing? Want updates? Follow me [on Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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